Cat's in the Cradle
by geminigrl11
Summary: Just before the end of IMTOD, John takes a look back and wonders what, if anything, he could have done differently. Includes preseries Sam and Dean.


Originally posted in _Brotherhood 4_. Also, written mid-Season 2 and so does not include any references to issues raised in "Jump the Shark."

Thank you to the many betas and editors who helped out—'zine writing is quite the process!

Usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

_When you comin' home, Dad?_

_I don't know when. But we'll get together then. You know we'll have a good time then. _

—_Harry Chapin_

oo—oo—oo—oo

"Daddy?"

John stuck a thumb in the middle of the page to mark his place and half-turned. Dean was standing just a few steps off, looking guarded but hopeful. In his hands were the glove they—he and Mary and, God, it still hurt just to think of her name—had given Dean for his birthday, along with a ratty tennis ball he must have found in the yard. It was fuzzy-looking and faded and John didn't want to think where it might have been.

He still wasn't used to hearing Dean's voice so quiet, so unsure. Gone was the boisterous, happy child he'd been…before. Gone, too, the silent shadow he'd become…after. As the months had passed, Dean had become this watchful, serious boy who followed orders like a soldier and rarely asked for anything, rarely seemed to expect anything when he did.

Dean didn't say anything else, like he was waiting for permission to speak. John sighed. "What's up, kiddo?"

"Can we—Sammy's sleeping, and it's not dinnertime yet, so I thought we could—I mean, will you…Can you play catch with me?" The words came out tangled, like Dean had thought them all out in his head but then got nervous and couldn't say them in the right order.

John swallowed a pang of guilt, hating that Dean was _nervous_ about asking such a simple, innocent question. Worried about what the reaction would be. And worse, John's response was going to reinforce that worry. As much as he wanted to—would have loved to, for so many reasons, not least of which was to feel something calm and peaceful and _good_ for a change—he couldn't say yes.

Missouri had put him in touch with a clergyman in Minnesota, who'd in turn led him to a man named Bobby Singer. Singer had a whole library of books that dealt with the kinds of entities that might have been responsible for Mary's murder. He'd shipped a few, and John was halfway through one of the more archaic texts, feeling like maybe he'd found something. Maybe _the_ something.

So, much as he wanted to say yes, it wasn't in the cards. More important that he took care of this now; there'd be time for games of catch later, after he'd tracked down the son of a bitch thing that had ripped his family apart and _ended it_. Then, they'd be safe again. Then, life would get back to normal. There would be time then.

"Sorry, Dean." He steeled himself against Dean's crestfallen expression, knowing it couldn't be helped. "I've got to finish this right now, okay? We'll play later."

Dean nodded, accepting the words even as his hands and head drooped, his whole posture so woeful John almost changed his mind. Almost.

John sighed again.

Dean had already turned away, heading out of the kitchen, glove hanging toward the floor.

"Dean."

He turned back, even more guarded than before, though his gaze was unflinching.

"We'll definitely do it later, all right? I promise."

Dean gave a small smile, tolerant but disbelieving. "It's okay, Dad." He kept walking.

John sighed again, wishing… But there was no time. He flipped the book back open, started reading again where he'd left off, any thoughts of baseball soon forgotten.

*****

He was exhausted.

The hunt had taken longer than he'd expected, hours of trudging through dense tree cover in the damp chill of late fall. Chupacabras weren't usually found so far north, but this wasn't the first sighting there'd been in Maine. So, when the article about a small, fanged creature attacking a child at a rest area caught his eye, John decided to follow up. He left the boys just over the border in Vermont with a friend of Pastor Jim's while Dean recovered from a broken leg.

John had been eager to get away, truth be told. Dean usually handled even the worst things with a good amount of aplomb, but the forced inactivity had made him surly and petulant. John was at a loss what to do with him until the three-quarters cast came off.

Sam actually tolerated the sudden mood swings far better than his father. He'd patiently fetched food and magazines and the television remote and pretty much anything else Dean wanted without complaint. He didn't take offense when Dean snapped at him, hadn't given into the urge to flaunt his own freedom, barely even moved from Dean's side.

Brother's kindness aside, though, Dean couldn't be mollified when he'd learned John was going hunting without him, mood turning even more dour as John made final preparations and headed out. John wasn't exactly looking forward to more of the same when he returned. He was hungry and cold, it was late, and he really hoped Sam had been able to work some magic and get Dean in a better frame of mind. If not, John would be looking for another hunt. First thing in the morning.

Well, maybe first thing in the afternoon. Damn, he was tired.

The lights were off when he pulled into the drive, and John breathed a sigh of relief. He left his bag in the car and crept toward his room as quietly as he could, wanting neither to disturb nor be disturbed.

He tossed his coat over the chair in the corner and groaned as he sat and tugged off his boots. A hot shower would have been nice—a hot meal, even nicer—but he couldn't even see straight anymore. Once he'd peeled off his clothes, he rolled back onto the bed, not even bothering to crawl under the covers. He wrapped the comforter around him instead, and was out in a matter of minutes.

It seemed only minutes later when an urgent whisper woke him.

"Dad?"

He grumbled as he turned in the whisper's direction, too worn out to answer properly.

"_Dad." _

Sam. More insistent now, not something he could ignore. "Whazzit, Sammy?"

"Dad."

John opened bleary eyes to see his youngest leaning over him, whites of his eyes stark against the darkness.

"There's something in my closet."

John rubbed a hand over his face and tried to gather his thoughts. Sam wasn't one for flights of fancy. He'd never embraced horror stories or fairy tales; John figured knowing the truth pretty much trumped anything a kid's imagination could come up with. In fact, there'd never been any "monster under my bed" moments for either of his sons. So, it was fair to say that if Sam believed there was something in his closet, there was a good chance there _was_.

Still, Joshua's house had every possible ward and protection; John had checked them himself. And there were fresh salt lines against all the door and window frames, holy water in the rooms. It was unlikely—all but impossible—anything seriously evil could have broken through.

"Where's your brother?" Even hobbled, Dean could deal with it, at least until morning. Whatever it was could wait until morning.

"Sleeping."

_Of course. _And painkiller-induced, most likely, since it was the only way he got any sleep these days.

Grumbling again, John reached blindly for the Sig he'd left on the nightstand. He could go through the steps blindfolded, and now it felt like he was: checking the clip for bullets, chambering a round, making sure the safety was on before handing it to Sam, butt-first with the muzzle pointed down and away. "You 'member what I taught you?"

"Yes, sir." Sam's voice was still a whisper, but there was a different tone to it; shock, most likely, since he'd never been allowed to handle a gun unsupervised before. His fingers wrapped firm around the grip, though, and John felt the gun's weight shift to Sam's hand.

"C'n you handle this?" John squinted through the darkness. Either way, he didn't think he had enough energy to sit up, let alone stand vigil over a closet all night. And in truth, he really didn't believe Sam was in any danger.

"Yes, sir." Even quieter, if that was possible.

"I'll check it out in the morning."

He was asleep again before Sam answered.

When did come—_so much for sleeping in_—Joshua had a report of a poltergeist in Massapequa that needed immediate attention. Figuring it was time to move on, anyway, John bundled the boys and their gear into the car. He thought they could press south, after; maybe winter in Virginia or one of the Carolinas. Somewhere warm.

It wasn't until two days later, when he'd pulled out the guns for cleaning, that he realized Sam still had the .45. He'd never said anything more about the closet. John hadn't asked. But the gun stayed with Sam from that point forward.

*****

Dean was going to catch it this time, no question. One-thirty in the morning and he still wasn't home, and if he'd thought he'd get off scot-free just because John wasn't supposed to be there, he had another think coming.

Unluckily for Dean, John's trip had taken less time than he'd thought. The silver dealer in Provo also had the grimoire John was looking for, which meant he was home a day ahead of schedule.

Something Dean obviously hadn't expected.

Sam had tried to cover for him, but John wasn't having it. Dean knew damned well what time he should have been in, and there was no excuse for being this late, period. This was one lesson Dean was going to learn the hard way; curfew would seem mild by comparison. _Let's see what he thinks of _that.

Dean sauntered in just after two, reeking of cigarette smoke and grinning a pleased little grin that had John clenching his fists. His surprise at seeing John at the kitchen table was more than evident. "Dad! You're back!"

"And so are you—finally."

There was no mistaking John's displeasure. Dean straightened, looking chagrined. "Look, I know I was supposed to be home—"

"Two hours ago," John interrupted.

Dean swallowed audibly. "Yes, sir. But I was in this pool game, and—"

"Pool game?" John was standing now, pacing. He caught sight of Sam just beyond the doorway, mouth opening like he was about to protest. John pointed a finger. "Not a word from you." Sam's mouth closed, downturning unhappily, eyes darting back to his brother.

"As for you." John's focus returned to Dean. "I didn't teach you to play so you could go hang out in bars. And if you get busted with that fake ID, you'd better believe it'll be the last one you get."

Dean took a breath and started to say something, but John cut him off. "When I give you rules, I expect them to be obeyed whether I'm here or not, is that clear?"

"Yes, Dad, but—"

"There is no _but._ You do as you're told, every time you're told, end of story."

"I know, Dad, but—"

"You've lost car privileges for the next month. And I want you home right after school, do you hear me? I—"

"_Dad!"_

"_What?"_

They were both breathing hard, Dean just staring at him with a wounded look. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of bills. It was hard to say how much was there, but the fact there was a roll at all was pretty impressive for one night's work. Dean had taken to the hustle like a fish to water, and it looked like it'd paid off. The knowledge didn't make John any happier. Until…

"Rent's due. And we were out of food. Didn't think you'd be back 'til Thursday." Dean tossed the money on the table.

Sam had moved forward, shoulder almost touching Dean's, both of them looking at him with a mix of trepidation and…and disappointment.

John felt gut-punched. He didn't even know what to say.

"I'm sorry I was late." Quiet. Pained. And for the first time since Dean had come home, he wasn't looking John in the eye. Instead, he was looking just to the side, military-style, his stance one of loose attention. A reprimanded soldier who'd done the right thing, if not under perfect circumstances.

John ran a hand over his eyes, trying to rein his temper back in. "Just…don't let it happen again."

Sam made some muffled sound of outrage Dean stifled by herding him out of the room. As they turned the corner, John heard a murmured, "Let it go."

He took a deep breath and held it, feeling overwhelmingly like a failure. He reached for the bottle of Jim Beam on top of the refrigerator and poured himself two fingers-full. The burn helped a little, one pain traded for another.

In the silence, he bowed his head, and thought of Mary.

*****

Sam had been asking about getting his driver's license for weeks at least, so it was a shock to see him pulling into the parking lot, executing a tight little u-turn when he found a space, and neatly backing into it. He took his time gathering bags from the back seat; looked like a combination of laundry and groceries. Arms full, he smiled gratefully when he saw John holding the door open for him.

"Thanks," he said, plopping the bags on Dean's bed. He started sorting through them without saying anything else, and John just waited, arms crossed and eyebrows up, expectant.

When Sam finally noticed, he looked up, surprised, suspicious. Funny, that was exactly how John felt. Sam's "What?" sounded self-conscious, and he glanced furtively around the room, trying to see what had piqued his father's interest.

"Something you want to tell me, Sammy?"

An eye-roll—caught just in time—at the use of the nickname he'd come to not appreciate lately, but no guilt, just confusion. John gave the keys Sam had tossed on the edge of the bed a pointed look.

"Oh." Sam's shoulders relaxed a little. "Dean let me borrow the car."

He turned back to the groceries and John shook his head. Was the kid purposefully baiting him? _"And?"_

Ah, now there was guilt. Sam couldn't quite meet his eyes, and there was a telltale flush on his cheeks; he'd never been a very skilled liar. John made a little "gimme" gesture with his hands.

"Dean's…uh…at the library. He said he'd be home in time for dinner."

John smirked a little at that, hiding it behind a hand. He had no doubt Dean had been at the library at some point. He'd probably had Sam drop him off there, before he headed for parts unknown. Or rather, given the fact he'd been spending quite a bit of time with that Shelly—or was it Suzy?—from the Stop-n-Go, parts that were probably a little too well-known. Dean was a master of creative truth, especially when it earned him a little one-on-one time with a girl. They were between hunts, though, and the errands John had assigned the boys for the day had been perfunctory; Dean had chosen his moment for subterfuge wisely.

Sam, on the other hand…

"And how does this explain why you're driving?"

"I told you, Dean gave me his keys—"

"No, Sam, I mean what makes you think you can drive alone without a license? I don't care how skilled you think you are, if you get pulled over—"

"Dad, I _have_ my license." At John's incredulous look, Sam grabbed his wallet, fished out the card and handed it over. He ducked his head, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I knew you were busy, so I asked Dean. He took me." There was reproach in Sam's tone, subtle but unmistakable. Defensiveness, too. Shoulders hunched, voice quiet, all signs that Sam was unhappy with him.

John brought the card up, looking at Sam's smiling picture. Wayward hair, dimples, bright eyes like his mother's. Six-foot-one, and when had that happened? When had this tiny, skinny little boy grown into an almost-man nearly as tall as his father?

There was a sudden, unmistakable burn of tears in John's eyes. He kneaded his forehead with callused fingers as he handed the card back and John told himself he was imagining the not-quite-masked hurt in Sam's expression. He turned away, reaching almost blindly for his journal, for anything to break him out of this moment of suffocating sentimentality. His voice stayed gruff, though, even after he cleared his throat. "Just…be responsible with it."

A sigh, and the sound of cans being set on the nightstand with a little more force than necessary. "Yes, sir." Tinged with an _I always am_, if John knew his son at all. Which was growing more doubtful by the day.

It wasn't right. He should have taken Sam. He'd taken Dean, years ago, remembered the jubilation in Dean's voice when he told him he'd passed on the first try. He'd been driving for months at that point…for that matter, Sam had, too, with guidance. Pure necessity that each of them could take the wheel if they had to. But getting an official license was a rite of passage, a small piece of normal life that John could give his sons. And with Sam, he'd missed his chance. Given it away, really. And for the life of him, John couldn't even think _why_. There'd been a hunt or two—there always was—but in the end, he'd really just forgotten, let it slip through the cracks.

_I'll make it up to you, Sammy. _He didn't say the words aloud, but in the moment, he meant them.

But then Caleb called with one case, and Pastor Jim with another, and in the blink of an eye, the moment was gone.

*****

The apartment was silent. Quieter than it had ever been, even in the dark of night with both boys sound asleep.

John curled over his glass, not drinking, still furious, still hearing Sam's angry words and his own ultimatum and the final slam of the front door.

Dean had taken him to the bus station; John knew it, even though he didn't ask. He didn't know whether to view that as a betrayal or to be grateful Sam at least had someone to send him off. He couldn't imagine what might have been said. Didn't know if Dean agreed with him or not. Didn't care.

If his stomach clenched in fear—and remorse, if he were being honest, which he _wasn't_—at what his youngest might face, out there in the world alone, John didn't acknowledge it.

He could hear Dean moving around the living room. He was probably getting the knives out to sharpen; he did that when he was agitated. Maybe John should, too. God knew he needed to calm down a little before he put a fist through something. And that brought back a memory: Sam's face when John had grabbed his shirt, shoved him against the wall, told him if he had so little respect for his family he'd willingly leave it, then he should stay gone. And then the gunshot sound of the door shutting as Sam walked out.

"Where the hell did all this college stuff come from, anyway?"

He wasn't really expecting an answer, but one came, all the same. Silence from the living room, then the sound of heavy steps walking toward the kitchen. "He's been talking about it for months, Dad."

Dean stayed behind him, and John was grateful. He didn't want to look at his son right now, didn't want to witness the reproof he suspected he'd see in Dean's eyes.

Dean was right: Sam _had_ been talking about it for months. John had just ignored him, tuned him out the way he did most things he didn't want to hear. Figured it was a passing thing, a phase, nothing that needed to be addressed. Dismissing the fact that Sam was like a dog with a bone when something worried him…or interested him. Dismissing the awe in Sam's expression when they'd visited that library at Loyola. Dismissing every well-intentioned teacher and guidance counselor who'd told him that Sam was bright, exceptionally so, that he should have a big future ahead of him. Dismissing all of it.

He pushed away from the table and stood. Dean was in front of him now, eyes red-rimmed, looking defeated. "Dad, what are we going to do?"

His oldest child reaching out, seeking answers, seeking comfort…the same way his youngest used to, before everything had gone to Hell. Before he'd told him to go and not come back.

John didn't have anything to give.

"I'm going out. Don't wait up."

Hurt flashed in Dean's eyes, almost too quickly to be identified. Then he seemed to catch himself, straightening into that same loose stance of attention John remembered him adopting as a child. "Yes, sir."

John turned and walked out, following Sam's trajectory and never looking back.

*****

_This was never the life that I wanted for you. _

Regrets can sink a man—kill him, if he's not careful. And John has more than his share. He's not sorry, though, not the way he maybe should be. His sons are alive. Together. Not safe, but prepared, the way he's trained them. He can't regret that.

But there are moments…so many moments, big and small, that he's missed. It makes him sick to know Dean suspected he was possessed because he said he was _proud _of him_._ That Sam feels cast aside, diminished in his presence, still afraid his father will push him away again. Because John _did._

If he could do it over, where would he start? Would he stop researching to play catch, would he not leave his boys to fend for themselves while he helps someone else's family, would he let them follow their own paths, independent of the hunt?

The only thing he'd really do is stop that yellow-eyed son of a bitch before it ever had a chance to take Mary. Send it back to Hell where it belonged, and hold his family to him, keep them safe forever.

He doesn't have that luxury.

It's too late to do right by the boys the way they need. The way they deserve. But it's not too late to protect them, one last time.

He lays the Colt on the tray table and backs away, says the goodbyes and I love yous he's never even whispered in the silence of his heart. And waits.

_Fin_


End file.
